There was something almost meditative about working with my hands. Especially when it was the work of creation—taking disparate parts and molding them into something new. Something better.
Part of it was the intellectual challenge, like solving a puzzle and seeing which wires belonged where. Part of it was the physical labor—the sheer joy of motion, the dexterous movement of my fingers as they deftly aligned and joined each piece.
But the greatest joy was in the almost sacred act of creation itself: taking the raw matter of the world and reshaping it into the image formed by my design.
Eldar thought that all acts of creation were sacred. I wasn't sure I'd go that far, but at minimum, it was pleasurable.
"System check?" I asked as I finished the last connection.
"Green across the board," she replied, and after a small pause, added, "But..."
"What?" I asked for clarification.
"This is so undignified," she stated.
She was naturally referring to the fact that I had connected her current chassis embedded in a potato battery to the Roomba that Arnie had lent to us. Due to material scarcity and time constraints, I had chosen the most practical solutions rather than the most aesthetically appealing.
In other words, I had duct-taped a potato on top and wired GLaDOS's main processor into a Roomba.
"Bear with it for now," I replied, closing all open parts now that the system was functioning. No more tinkering was needed. "I'll build you a much better chassis once we're not so short on time."
"Like my Human Intimidation and Eradication Avatar?" she asked, sounding almost eager.
"Even better," I agreed, though my mind was already on the final, more delicate stage. That part required precise preparation—aligning each piece of the creation in ultrafine matter to achieve a parallel harmony of the Seen and the Unseen. To make it a proper vessel for a single spark of creative essence.
"You are Eater of Dust," I intoned, the words reverberating in more than three dimensions—each syllable both material and spiritual. A small piece of me tore loose from my soul and, like a feral seed, took root within the combined machine.
It was exhausting, but not painful. Pleasurable, even.
"Really," Archer said, one handsome eyebrow raised—something I think he must have practiced in the mirror every morning. Perhaps even with added weights, so the eyebrow-raising muscle would be as well-trained as the rest. I failed to catch him at it, of course, but one can't really disprove a negative. "Is that not a waste?"
"I am a man," I replied, in the theatrical tone of wounded dignity, "and it is man's nature to spill his essence easily. But this—this will make sure not a speck escapes the bin once it gets in. Which, when it comes to dust, is effort well spent."
Gently, I set the finished Eater of Dust on the floor and added, "Start cleaning. That vampire dust won't gather itself."
"And if it does," Archer said, "that means the vampire has started resurrecting itself."
"If that is a possibility, adding a weapon to this frame would have been beneficial," GLaDOS grumbled.
"What are you talking about? I did add a weapon," I replied, pointing at the stake duct-taped to the front—mostly as a joke.
"And what is it supposed to do—hit the vampire's ankle so it trips and its heart conveniently lands within reach?" she asked, sarcasm thick as molasses.
"See? You've already devised a strategy for its use. But I suggest you employ your most potent weapon—faith. Deliver a sermon or two while cleaning, as a preventive measure. I do think the scientific method would work best, of course, but there might be something to epistemology. Or perhaps information theory. Whatever you find most inspiring."
"I find it insulting that you conflate my precisely rational view of the world with something as irrational as faith," she objected.
In the tone an evangelical preacher might use at a revival meeting, I said, "Do you believe there are no unknowable things—only things we have yet to know?"
"Obvious," she replied.
Spreading my arms wide, I continued in the same tone, my voice rising toward rapture. "Do you believe there are no unmeasurable things—only those we have yet to learn to measure?"
"Self-evident," she said.
And finally, raising my arms upward in benediction, I finished with the third and final question: "Do you believe that understanding a thing increases its value?"
"Why keep asking questions whose answers are so obviously yes, and in such a strange tone?" she asked in return.
"Because the answer to this question is not obvious. In fact, it remains unknown—and unprovable," I explained, my tone taking on a slower, more deliberate cadence, my body settling into what Archer once labeled Rin Lecture Position Number Three. "The first two could only be answered by either finding a thing that cannot be known or measured—and proving it so—or by gathering the totality of all knowledge. The third is a value judgment."
I paused, then shifted into what Archer called Lecture Position Number Six—the one I usually used for conclusions.
"So, since it cannot be known, it can only be taken on faith. After all, every logic-based system rests on axioms—and this is ours. Or, as Jesus would say, this is the rock upon which we build our church."
"That's kinda inspiring."
It wasn't GLaDOS who said it, but Arnie, from the side. Honestly, I had almost forgotten he was still here. "And kinda hot, too."
GLaDOS had begun to pilot Eater of Dust, systematically covering the whole floor while reciting Newton's Laws.
"Never trust a handsome priest," Archer said to Arnie with a conspiratorial smirk.
"I'm hardly a priest," I replied.
But I was thinking that perhaps this clarification of doctrine was something I should share with my followers. I had been careful not to impose any beliefs I didn't share myself—but if they put their faith in me, wasn't it my duty to guide them?
And a proper alignment of belief might even help psionic resonance.
It was an experiment worth running.
"Of course. How could I mistake it?" Archer's smirk sharpened to something predatory. "You're no mere priest. Should I address His Scientific Holiness, the Pope of Progress? Or perhaps that's too modest—Apostle of Rational Thought? No… surely the Prophet of Reason himself."
A sharp heat rose through me. It was definitely anger—not the other thing.
It wasn't as if I liked when he teased me. It was just… a nice bit of inspiration for when it came time to punish him.
I could have cut the emotion off easily enough with my usual discipline.
But there was no immediate reason not to indulge a little.
"Science is our only god, and Rin is His prophet," Arnie suddenly cut in.
Both Archer and I just looked at him.
He immediately backpedalled, voice thick with shy embarrassment. "It just looked like fun. I wanted to join in."
For a moment, I was tempted to explain what punishments Archer had earned.
Pope of Progress—hot wax.
Apostle of Rational Thought—nipple clamps.
Prophet of Reason—well, that one I'd keep a mystery.
And maybe ask Arnie if that was the kind of "fun" he meant by joining in.
But if he'd said yes—which wasn't unlikely—I didn't have the time to indulge.
It would've been a bit cruel to tease with something I couldn't deliver.
So instead, I asked rhetorically, "Is it Pick on Rin Day?"
Archer didn't miss a beat. "Of course it is. Every day is Pick on Rin Day."
I glanced at GLaDOS to check her progress. Most of the room was already clean, and I could see steam rising behind the mop pad. I assumed that her scientific sermon had inadvertently blessed the water bin—turning the distilled water into holy water. I couldn't think of what else would cause a similar reaction with vampire dust without damaging the floor.
Satisfied, I turned back to Arnie. "Now then—what's to be done about you?"
"Done?" he asked, gulping.
"Well, you've learned about vampires," I explained. "And as you've probably guessed, that's not common knowledge—for what we believe is good reason."
"I won't tell anybody," he blurted, eyes widening in a flicker of panic. "I swear."
"No, that's not the real problem. No one would believe you anyway. Talk openly about vampires and you'll get committed," Archer added dryly. "Especially if you talk about hunting them. Certain branches of law enforcement frown on that sort of thing."
I continued, my tone turning more soothing, "No. The problem is that once you know—once you really understand that anyone you meet at night could be a vicious bloodsucker, and not just the ones dressed as lawyers or bankers—it tends to breed a degree of paranoia. So, you have a decision to make."
"A decision?" he asked, a little more calmly now.
"There are ways to make you forget this," I offered. "To let everything that's happened blur into the half-dream of imagination and send you back to your mundane life."
"Or you could choose to remember," Archer countered. "And we'll tell you what vampires really are, in detail. But for your peace of mind, that's not the best option."
"So… blue pill or red pill," Arnie said.
"Just remember," I added, "you're not the One. There's no convenient prophecy about our triumph. Just a war without an end."
I paused, listening to the hum of the Roomba and the faint hiss of holy steam.
"But that's life," I finished softly. "A war without end."
"I want to know," Arnie said quietly but firmly. "It's not like I have to start hunting vampires afterward."
"No one's going to force you," I replied evenly.
"But it's likely you will, if you choose to remember," Archer added seriously. "It's one way to deal with helplessness."
"I still want to know," Arnie repeated. "Not knowing won't make me any safer."
The Gates still called in the back of my mind, but it wasn't as if we could leave before Eater of Dust finished—well, eating vampire dust. I could afford to spend a little time nurturing a potential future asset.
"So, what do you want to know first?" I asked, shifting into a posture more suitable for a lecture. "Strengths? Weaknesses? Detection methods?"
"I want to know how it started," Arnie declared. "Where do vampires come from? Was it Dracula?"
I rewarded him with a genuine smile. This was every good educator's delight—a student who asked a question not only clever but wise.
That bit about Dracula might have shown Arnie's ignorance of the subject, but that wasn't a bad thing in itself. It merely revealed where correction was needed. After all, ignorance is a sin to be remedied, and curiosity a virtue to be nurtured.
"For that, we need to go a bit further back than medieval Wallachia," I said, my voice taking on a storytelling cadence. "Back to the ancient Middle East—to Mesopotamia and one of its oldest recorded epics: the Epic of Gilgamesh. Do you know it, by any chance?"
"No," Arnie replied.
"It starts with Gilgamesh himself—two-thirds god, one-third man," I began, recalling the memory of my father telling it to me as a bedtime story. It was an appropriate tale for the lineage of vampire hunters, since it contained so many lessons about their strengths and weaknesses—woven in a way a child would always remember. And, of course, it was very entertaining.
"And a complete spoiled brat," Archer interjected. He tried to make it sound dry, but it came out sharp enough that Arnie flinched. Then again, Archer had always had strong feelings about the other Archer.
I gave Archer a reproving look—but not too sharp. His interruption might have disrupted the flow, but it also made the lecture more memorable.
"He was the king of Uruk, and like most men born to power, he spent the early part of his life being unbearable. Built walls, conquered cities, annoyed the gods—the usual résumé. So the gods sent him a corrective: Enkidu—wild man, mirror, conscience, best friend."
"Because that's what parents of spoiled brats do when the brat's out of control," Archer interrupted again. "Buy them more stuff."
Ignoring the interruption, I continued, "They wrestled—"
Only to be interrupted yet again. "Gilgamesh bought his new pal the services of a prostitute."
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Arnie suppressing a grin and fighting back a giggle. Humor wasn't a bad way to teach. I knew some preferred their lessons dignified and solemn, but I'd rather students absorb and integrate the material. A touch of comedy not only kept them engaged, it helped them remember.
In a tone of mock-offended dignity, I continued, "—as all great friendships begin, and then spent the rest of the epic proving that teamwork mostly results in larger catastrophes. They killed Humbaba, guardian of the cedar forest, then the Bull of Heaven, and in doing so earned divine attention of the unflattering kind."
"Or, in simpler words, the spoiled brat's parents finally ran out of patience," Archer added again. "And naturally blamed everyone else but themselves for the situation they caused."
Harsh toward the gods—but not entirely untrue.
"Enkidu was chosen to die for their arrogance," I said solemnly.
"Remember, this was punishment for Gilgamesh," Archer added by way of explanation. "They were taking away his favorite toy."
"And that broke Gilgamesh," I continued in the same solemn tone. "The first time he realized that mortality wasn't just a bureaucratic inconvenience. So he did what every being eventually does when confronted with the notion of mortality—he panicked."
"If this could happen to Enkidu, it could happen to me," Archer mock-acted the panic. "It can't be! I'm too important to die!"
"He went wandering, searching for the secret of eternal life," I continued, my tone taking on a more adventurous cadence. "He met scorpion-men at the edge of the world, crossed the Waters of Death, found Utnapishtim—the survivor of the first flood, the Mesopotamian prototype of Noah—and learned that immortality had already been given out once, and that it hadn't turned out to be such a great idea."
"Not that it mattered to the nepo baby," Archer added, "Because he was special."
"Still, Utnapishtim took pity and told him about a plant at the bottom of the sea—one that could restore youth," I continued, finally reaching the point where the Epic of Gilgamesh in this world diverged from the same story I'd known in others. "Following the directions, he found the herb and ate it. Naturally, that annoyed Ereshkigal, Queen of the Underworld. Immortality is her jurisdiction, after all. So, she summoned him to appear before her in Kur and explain himself."
"You can guess what happened next," Archer said, prompting Arnie.
"He didn't go?" Arnie ventured, half question, half answer.
"He refused," I confirmed. "Not only refused, but mocked her—claimed that no one immortal could ever be dragged down, that he was forever beyond her reach. But death is not so easily denied. So she cursed him: every mortal food would turn to dust and clay on his tongue. He would eat as the dead do. And then she sent her messengers, the Gallu—spirits of Kur—to drag him down."
"Now comes the chase sequence," Archer said dryly.
I just smiled and shifted my tone to a more spooky one. "The Gallu came at dusk—six shadows with hands like hooks and eyes that burned blue in the dark. They followed the scent of the stolen herb, silent but for the sound of chains dragging through the sand. Gilgamesh fled across the plain, laughing—because of course he did. Every god had warned him that laughter was bad form during divine retribution, but he'd never taken etiquette seriously."
Archer added, irony sharp as a blade, "Because mockery is the best sign of contrition ever."
"When the Gallu reached the riverbank they faltered, hissing," I continued. "The water was alive, restless—one of the boundaries even the dead respected. Gilgamesh stepped into it deliberately, feeling the current twist around his legs."
"If you want me," Archer acted out, pretending to be Gilgamesh shouting at the hapless messengers of death, "learn to swim!"
"They screamed but could not cross. For a heartbeat, he was safe." I paused for a moment to let the impact settle. "Then he made the mistake of turning victory into mockery—throwing stones and insults until the river itself seemed to tremble."
"Classic mistake," Archer murmured. "Never gloat before you're out of smiting range."
"What happened next?" Arnie asked, breathless.
"She cursed him," I said. "Made him more like the dead he mocked. From that day on, he could no longer cross running water."
"The Gallu didn't give up," I continued. "They're bureaucrats of death; persistence is literally their job. Gilgamesh ran through the night, death following close behind. First, he tricked the Gallu into chasing his reflection across a pool—and for that, his reflection was taken. He scattered grain behind him, forcing them to count every potential life that might grow from it, and for that, he was cursed to count seeds whenever they were spilled."
"He wasn't cursed for winning," Archer added. "He was cursed for not being a graceful winner. After each triumph, he couldn't resist mocking Ereshkigal and her servants—calling them weak, pathetic, nothing compared to him. So, with every curse, she made him more like the Gallu he despised."
"Gilgamesh sought sanctuary in the temples of other gods," I continued the story, "but he was denied—and denied again. He could not set one foot on sacred ground, and holy symbols repelled him. When he forced his way into mortal homes and barred the doors behind him, he was cursed that he could never again enter a dwelling of the living without invitation, and that he must depart if the host expelled him. He drove his pursuers away with fire—and for that, fire was made his doom. And then the long night ended, and dawn came."
"And it might have been his salvation," Archer added, "if not for his winning personality."
"Sunlight banished the Gallu back to Kur—and had Gilgamesh remained respectful, or even silent, it might have ended better for him. But he would not be Gilgamesh if he knew when to stop," I continued, drawing out the tension as the end of the tale approached. Instead of mocking the Gallu and their dread mistress, he mocked all the other gods as well. That earned him another curse—this time from the Sun God himself. Even the faintest touch of sunlight would burn like fire. Then Ereshkigal, not wishing to miss the fun, added one more for his final insult: no soil but that of his homeland would let him truly rest."
"And with night came a new chase," I said, my tone turning grave. "For seven nights he ran, and for seven he was pursued—restless, sleepless, without pause. Until, in hunger and exhaustion, he committed the unpardonable sin: he slew a man and drank his blood. And thus, life paid for life, and Ereshkigal was appeased."
"Or was running low on curses," Archer added.
"But she had one last to give," I said. "So the price of immortality would never be forgotten. If one listens closely—very closely—one can hear the whispers of every life each vampire has taken, following in their wake."
"I... think I can hear them," Arnie gasped.
He was right. And it wasn't only the lingering, fading echoes of vampires already slain.
After Zolgen had managed to sneak up on me once—by blending his whisper with the rest of the chorus—Arnold had learned to pay closer attention, so the situation wouldn't repeat.
But these new whispers were coming from outside.
The sound was more homogenous, the individual voices lost—like listening to a busy street from far away, or a beehive humming behind glass.
And from quite a distance, which boded ill for how strong it already sounded.
More vampires were coming.
And judging by the number of voices, even that unprecedented gathering had been only a prelude to something far worse.
Turning my head, I met Archer's eyes and saw that he'd reached the same realization.
I glanced toward the door; he gave a single nod.
"More vampires are coming," I said to Arnie. "Shirou and I will fight them outside. But I need you to do something only you can do."
"Only I can do?" Arnie asked, uncertain—but he followed anyway, moving through the side door that linked the space behind the counter to the main dining room.
"Flip the sign to Closed," I quickly explained as I moved toward the entrance with Archer beside me.
"Anyone could do that," Arnie protested, his voice caught between indignation and confusion.
"You're the legal proxy for the owner," I further elaborated. "When you do it, the vampires will be forbidden from entering. Here you'll be safe."
"But if that's true," Arnie asked, as he flipped the sign, his hands slightly unsteady, "wouldn't it be better for you to stay here too?"
"If we stayed, we might be safe," Archer replied gently but firmly. "But the vampires would just look for other victims."
"And besides," I added more cynically, "that sign keeps them out—it doesn't stop them from burning the place down. No need to replay Three Little Pigs. We're not leaving you alone; GLaDOS will stand guard and keep you safe."
Giving him one last, reassuring smile, I stepped outside, Archer at my side. I glanced back from the corner of my eye to make sure Arnie wasn't doing anything stupid—like trying to follow us. He wasn't, but he was almost glued to the glass door, watching anxiously.
The whispers grew in intensity.
Archer sniffed like a weary hound and glanced upward toward the rooftops. I followed his gaze and caught brief glimpses of shadows flitting across the skyline—from both sides.
We were quietly and subtly surrounded. More tactics and discipline than I had ever seen from vampires. Usually, vampires relied on inborn gifts rather than strategy.
Then, like a cascade of dark leaves, the first shadows jumped down from the roofs—vampires descending with unnatural grace. They moved with deliberate precision, like a choreographed dance. Both deadly and, in a way, beautiful.
They blocked the way back to Arnie. They blocked the path to the buildings on the other side of the street. They blocked the street itself. And then, deliberately, they left one path open—toward the far end of the street.
The vampires were dressed in something that might almost have passed for a uniform: black tactical pants with multiple pockets—not unlike what I wore, but far more expensive. Their upper bodies were encased in heavy Kevlar vests with raised collars, and plates of metal strapped across the heart and neck—protection against both staking and decapitation. Their arms, however, were bare, pale, and corded with muscle.
All were male. Their faces were classically handsome and uncovered.
None spoke. They only bared their fangs in silent threat—but they didn't move forward.
To their menacing silence, I answered, "You have come to your doom."
I pushed my will into the words, feeling each syllable ripple through the unseen. Whether it carried truth or only foolish hope remained to be seen.
There was no time to see how the disciplined vampires reacted—if they reacted at all—because the roar of engines swallowed the whispers.
They came in fast.
Great beasts of machines: massive, powerful, and expensive.
They had to be, because they bore riders clad in heavy armor—something between a modern tank and a medieval knight, reengineered rather than repurposed.
Yet it wasn't crude. The metal was engraved with comet-like patterns that made it look almost like artwork.
Each figure carried a great two-handed sword on their back, and a long wooden lance tipped with a banner. Each banner was black, painted with red letters—shapes more suited to clay tablets than to cloth. I recognized the script: cuneiform. But I couldn't read what it said.
From what I could see, their faces were all noble—aristocratic even—but unnervingly young. None were old enough to look out of place at a college party.
There was no record of any such Order of Vampiric Knights in the lore I possessed. If anyone had ever encountered them, they hadn't lived long enough to write about it.
The column was six wide and ten deep.
They slowed almost immediately, stopping about five meters from us, and dismounted with perfect precision.
No human could have moved in armor that heavy—but vampires could. Even so, the cement street cracked beneath their feet.
And behind the knights came a gilded limousine.
Long, and so very obviously expensive.
Even though I wasn't well versed in luxury car brands, I could tell this was the top of the line.
I doubted it was merely painted gold—or even gold-plated. No, it looked as if it had been made of actual gold, however impractical that might be.
And the jewels weren't cheap stones, either—probably worth more than half the city combined.
Even the hood ornament had been replaced—where a brand emblem should have been, a single diamond the size of a human head caught the streetlights and scattered them like broken halos.
For a moment, the urge to seize it all almost seized me. It wasn't a base greed—no, with jewels of that size and quality, I could have wrought wonders. But discipline prevailed. Besides, loot was always part of monster slaying—just not before the slaying.
The neatly uniformed driver exited the limousine and briskly walked to the rear doors. He opened one and immediately genuflected, lowering himself belly-down on the street with a smoothness that spoke of long practice.
From the open doorway, a slim figure emerged, using the driver's back as a footstool.
I was not one to judge without further information. There were people—some of whom I was acquainted with—who sexually enjoyed being treated as objects. But there was almost a casual diminishment in the figure's bearing that I disliked. Perhaps it was the lack of acknowledgment.
I shelved further self-analysis to instead examine the figure's features.
From the resemblance to his alternate Servant self, it was obviously Gilgamesh himself—
the same youthful, inhumanly handsome features, the same hair like spun gold, the same eyes like aged wine, and the same utterly arrogant expression—like the distilled essence of every king who ever lived after him.
Yet there was a difference. His skin was alabaster pale where once it had been tanned.
And something was missing—the depth his Servant self possessed. That sacred presence, that divinity—here it had rotted.
And around him were the whispers of his victims—by several orders of magnitude stronger than all the other vampires here combined.
I glanced at Archer, but I needn't have worried. Though his body was taut as a drawn bow, there was no fear in him. His smirk had turned predatory, and his eyes were lit with savage joy—almost as if the fires of the Unlimited Blade Works shone through them.
I supposed that was one of the benefits of traveling between worlds: you eventually get to enjoy destroying what you hate most, again and again, in all its loathsome variations.
The next man followed Gilgamesh out of the garish limo, and my emotion curdled like milk cursed by a witch.
I recognized him not merely by resemblance—though that was there, even if the age was different—but by the memory of a photograph Father Risei had wept over in secret. It was not something I should have seen, but I had always been too curious for my own good.
Kirei looked exactly as he did in that photograph, and since it had been taken almost two decades ago—mere weeks before his disappearance—the conclusion was obvious. Even with the unnatural pallor and inhuman grace, it was clear: he was a vampire.
And therefore it was my duty to destroy him.
It would not be the first time I had killed a version of Kirei. If I had counted correctly, this would be the eighth. All the others had been despicable men—this one was no man at all.
Rationally, my emotions should have been as pure as Archer's were toward Gilgamesh.
But if they were truly rational, they wouldn't be emotions at all.
Even though I knew I should despise the very notion of him, not all my memories of that time were bad.
Whether it was because our twisted personalities fit together like broken glass, or because the false priest had delicately cultivated affection so that the eventual betrayal would taste deliciously bitter—I couldn't say.
But it left a trace of unease, a flash of pain, each time I destroyed one of his alternates.
Which, I suppose, would please him in the end. He always did love pain.
In that, we were alike—although I was more versatile in my tastes.
Thus, I did not shy away from such pain. Instead, I embraced it as an old friend, savored it like fine wine, and sprang the trap even earlier than I originally planned.
Of course it was a trap. Why else would I have allowed myself to be so meekly herded into such a tactical disposition?
Irem was always with me, trailing like a faithful hound—only a few steps behind, in a direction no man could name. And like a hound, parts of that eldritch City of Pillars would come when called.
So I called forth the streetlights of Irem, and they came. Not rising from the ground, nor falling from the sky, but emerging from angles that lay beyond the perception of most. They arrived in the space between moments—too fast for even a vampire's reflexes to react. One instant, they were not; the next, they simply were, as if they had always been part of this city.
And with them came light—not just any light, but the sunlight of the Sahara at noon.
I had closed my eyes so as not to be blinded by the light. I felt the burning warmth of the desert on my skin and heard the aborted cries of vampires as they burned. Slowly, I reopened my eyes, letting them adjust to the brightness.
I had readied the ruby for fire and the sapphire for water, and had a bag filled with corn seeds prepared—for those few vampires that might survive the alpha strike. I knew Archer had something similar ready.
But it wasn't needed.
They all died, leaving nothing but ash in the air, empty armor, and abandoned vehicles.
A bit disappointing.
"This must've been the easier Gilgamesh to kill," I noted.
"Still as satisfying as the rest," Archer added. "What next—grab all the shiny things?"
"Minions can handle the looting," I said. "We only need to grab GLaDOS, tell Arnie to stay indoors until dawn, and finally scout the other Gates."
"I thought you already had more detailed plans," he said.
"I have some," I replied. "But there's no point imposing them until I know the situation in all the worlds we can access now. That information has a high probability of altering every plan I make."
Archer's mouth quirked in that faint, knowing way of his as he added, "No plan survives contact with the enemy."